Sunday, December 31, 2017

When I'm at the store, I'm a cart voyeur. I look at what other people bought and assess/judge them. Do the people with the healthy stuff look healthy? Do the folks with the cart of junk look weak and slovenly? My findings thus far: inconclusive.

And yes, I do the same voyerism/judgey thing to you. Those of you who kindly start your Amazon shopping through one of the links there in the right margin not only support the blog with a few pennies (literally) per purchase and indirectly support democracy not dying in darkness, but you also give me some truly stellar cart voyeurism.*

Every year I look over what you bought, looking to draw big connections like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind when the random letters rise from the newspaper and he sees the Secret Wisdom within.

But, as it is with my cart research, I find myself with more questions than answers. Like:

--Dog toy or sex toy?

--Were the oddly high number of people who bought Naughty With Santa: An Erotic Christmas Story wholly satisfied? Like $2.99 satisfied? Seems kinda pricey,
though the first sentence alone is probably worth a good buck fifty: "I
really didn't mean to, but I fucked Santa."

--And to the person who bought the Cowardly Lion Badge of Courage. I have no question--just liked that you wanted it. I'm going to imagine that it totally worked.

I did manage to learn some stuff about you. Here are 4 things that, like Oprah, I Know For Sure.

*For those of you worried about privacy (hahahaha, privacy is not really a "thing" anymore), I can't actually see who bought what, just what was bought. That means I can't personally thank the person who bought the Vagisil Daily Intimate Powder, Odor Block,
but I also don't know that it's YOU that requires ODOR BLOCK for your
nether regions. (For the record, don't buy that shit--it's bad for your
cooch! Maybe remove sugar from your diet and if things get really rough,
try this.)

And in vaguely related news, this is my favorite joke that everyone else thinks is just meh:
Person 1: Mmm, you smell delicious. What is it?
Person 2: It's my tampon! It's scented.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Men like sending them, but few women -- and only under very specific circumstances -- like getting them. (I think they're sexy, but I get that impression that I'm unusual in that regard.) In any case, it seems like a bit of messed up evolutionary mating economics--all supply, little demand.

Supply's not going down any time soon, so it seems the best solution is to create more demand. In this case, creating a better quality--hence possibly better-received--dick pic.

this is a tumblr with a simple premise: send me your dick pics, & i’ll critique them with love.'with love' is an important addendum. i'm never going to shame
you about the size of your dick or what it looks like; i'm not about
that life. i will, however, be ruthlessly honest when it comes to things
like angles, lighting & general tone. i'm trying to help you
improve, because in all likelihood your dick pics are artless &
dull.

The girl is ruthlessly honestly and is against "Porky Pigging," that is, wearing a shirt but no pants, and photos featuring "the log," (says she: "the log" is when you take a bird’s eye view, close-up shot of your
enormous dick, with your dick taking up most of the frame & with
very little surrounding detail. dudes, they’re boring. they’re ~so~
boring. they say "look at my fat cock" & fuck all else.") She ends each review with a letter grade. In bold.

Consider this poor guy who sent in an uninspired shot of his dick hanging over the edge of a kitchen sink. (You'll have to look yourself b/c as Holden puts it, this site is "Not! Safe! For! Work!")

um no this is definitely not very good.your dick is unceremoniously flopped out of your pants & you look
like you’re about to piss in the sink. your right arm is hanging limply
& the top right hand corner of your pic is straight blur. sender,
this is very bad? you didn’t try very much here? it is extremely
unlikely that this picture would arouse anyone?if i were you, sender, i would scrap this entirely & start again,
with 100% less sink, 100% less blur, & 1000% more effort.thank you for submitting to critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com. your dick pic gets a C-.

I am completely in love with this site and wish I could just run a bunch of the pix here so you don't have to be clicking around, but Google gets a little peevish when I get too racy. Do hop over, then tell me what you think. I welcome any and all dick pic stories you might send me as well.

xoxox
jill

ps yes I do appreciate the absurdity of kowtowing to Google's prudery while running afoul of Porky Pig's copyright holder. Though I give part of the blame to him for not wearing pants.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

I am thinking of masturbation this morning. Not in the sense of putting it on today's "to do" list (although--what the hell--maybe I was, you don't need to know every damn thing), but in a more general, historic context way.

Armed with some notes and pads of paper for the girls to doodle on (secret real purpose: to give them a place to pretend to stare at if things got too embarrassing) brave Kathleen laid it all out for these girls--including the hows of orgasms, the phases of sexual response, and the role of masturbation in a healthy sex life. Kathleen even talked to them about sexual fantasies and told them different ways that girls might want to touch themselves. The eminently sensible idea being: people armed with knowledge are better able to make smart and responsible decisions about sex.

It was completelyrevolutionary to me. The one hour of sex education class I got in the 1970s contained quite a bit of information--an excessive amount, to my mind--about vas deferens, fallopian tubes and the like, but nothing in the way of practical information about sex. That is, the $%$# you actually wanted to know. I mean, my teacher described the doing of "IT" as "the sperm meeting the egg," as though a cotillion was somehow involved. There was no fucking way she was going to talk about the emotional and physical benefits of jerking off.

When I had my first self-given orgasm, I thought I had probably broken myself. I might have asked someone about it, but I was somehow aware that this was the sort of activity one didn't speak of. (Later I worried that I might have become pregnant after an interesting experiment with a pool water jet.* I was perhaps not the brightest of children.)

This kind of masturbation shame/ignorance is, fortunately, a fairly recent development. Throughout most of history, masturbation was considered natural, good, a sign of fertility and such. There are spurts of masturbation references throughout art, mythology and history. The ancient Greeks approved of stoking one's own fire, considering it a healthy outlet for both men and women. And in Egypt, the god Atum was thought to have brought forth the universe by ejaculating during what must have been a rather interesting session of beating off. ("Atum! You're still in the bathroom? What are you doing in there, young man?")

So accepted was the practice that nannies in 17th century Europe would masturbate young males who couldn't get to sleep(!) This is perhaps what people mean when they complain they can't get good help anymore. Dear Carmen, the lady who used to clean my house before I became poor, never once offered to give me a handjob, even after I pointedly mentioned I was having trouble sleeping.

How did we get from there to here? I mean, what sort of crazy-ass mind control propaganda could get people to turn against such a pleasurable activity? It was an influential pamphlet, of all things, circulated in 1700s America. It explained that semen held the Life Force and, as such, should not be squandered in the handkerchiefs of the day.

Soon, a variety of health and moral problems were added to plain ol' life force squandering. In "A Solemn Appeal," Sister Ellen G. White lists a host of old-timey ails caused by "the practice" including the dreaded "dropsy." The alarmed Sister warns, "The mind is often utterly ruined, and insanity supervenes." This perhaps explains why I have been known to stare blankly when someone asks me my cell phone number.

In Daniel Hack Turke's 1892 A Dictionary of Psychological Medicine, he described a habitual masturbator thusly:

The face becomes pale and pasty, and the eye lusterless. The man loses all spontaneity and cheerfulness, all manliness and self-reliance. He cannot look you in the face because he is haunted by the consciousness of a dirty secret which he must always conceal and always dreads that you may discover. He shuns society, and has no intimate friends, does not dare to marry, and becomes a timid, hypersensitive, self-centered, hypochondriac.

Obviously such a fate was undesirable and young masturbators needed to be saved lest they, too, become pale and pasty in the face. According to Mary Roach in Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, "Little hands were tied to headboards, and trousers fashioned without pockets. Hobbyhorses were taken away, and climbing ropes removed from school gymnasiums." And in 1914's Scouting for Boys: A Handbook for Instruction in Good Citizenship, scouting founder Robert Baden-Powell urges boys stricken with the forbidden urge to literally run away from temptation until presumably the boy would be so physically exhausted he would no longer have the energy to reach for his member.

This kind of hysteria fed on itself, and at a certain point, anti-masturbation advocates sound less concerned with the moral health of our youth and more like completely insane sadists. John Kellogg, the cereal guy, claimed that the "solitary vice" caused a host of health problems, up to and including death. "Such a victim literally dies by his own hands," Kellogg wrote, perhaps chuckling to himself over his wit. I knew Kellogg was wack--I mean, the dude invented a high-powered enema machine for personal use--but I didn't realize just how much of a nutter he was until I saw this in Wikipedia's History of Masturbation:

He recommended, to prevent children from this "solitary vice", bandaging or tying their hands, covering their genitals with patented cages, sewing the foreskin shut and electrical shock. He also recommended burning off the clitoris to prevent masturbation in girls.

Enterprising Americans wanted in on this action and dutifully invented all sorts of dreadful devices to stop people from ravishing themselves. (For lots of scary pictures, see also: Stephenson Billings' The Anti-Masturbation Movement's 14 Greatest Inventions on ChristWire.) There were penis fans to keep one's member from undue warmth, full body suits to prevent lustful wandering hands, and alarm systems designed to alert parents to their children's nocturnal erections (not quite sure what the parent is supposed to do once alerted). Penis cages and trusses locked the guilty organ up or tied it down to physically prevent erections. And when those didn't work, physical pain was employed.

"The Timely Warning" (pictured at left) prevented "night emissions by arousing the wearer." "Arousing" is, at the very least, a curious choice of words. I guess it's an 1800s adman's best try at a positive spin on what would more accurately be described as: "being rudely awakened from your sweet dreams and pleasantly swelling erection by the sharp stab of a ring of metal teeth cutting into your wang."

The fetish gear-looking contraption shown at right is from US Patent 745,264, filed May 29, 1903, by one Albert V. Todd, for a device designed to prevent masturbation and nocturnal emissions. It features "a lockable belt with a tube for inserting the penis." If the errant penis were to rise while its pious owner was innocently sleeping, the device would employ spikes, an alarm bell, and an electric shock to get things back under control.

It's madness, obviously, but plenty of people are still afraid of masturbation (see also: The Dreaded "M" Word by former U.S. Surgeon General Jocelyn Elders, who was fired--I can still scarcely believe it!--for merely mentioning masturbation.) This article, for example, Freedom From Masturbation, offers guilty onanists a religious approach to stopping, including specific anti-monkey-spanking prayers to recite and the advice to "pray intermittently in tongues as the Lord leads you." (I would much less disturbed by walking in on some guy jacking off than some guy not jacking off while sporting a huge hard-on and speaking in tongues, but that's just me.)

The good news is that, in general, things seem to be finally turning around. Viva Changing Bodies, Changing Lives and people like brave Kathleen teaching girls how to wank it! As Dan Savage says in Savage U, "Girls should be encouraged to experiment, masturbate, learn how their bodies and orgasms work before moving on to partnered sex. Partnered sex would be less intimidating and disappointing out of the gate if more women arrived knowing how to get themselves off."

Monday, November 6, 2017

Here's why: I've compiled the best of IBWMW into a book, working title Hysterical.* I sent it to three agents and all said, "Love your voice. (pause) Essays are impossible to sell."

So. I need an alluring through line that makes these impossible essays seem more like a memoir or quest or otherwise must-have book. They would still be the essays, but tarted up and packaged in a more saleable way.

When I get a solid/compelling subtitle like Hysterical: (blah blah blah i am a lady who stares too closely at sex and have learned some shit, this is the point/quest behind the whole book), I'm in. But I've been thinking on it for weeks and I CAN'T FUCKING FIGURE OUT WHAT IT IS. (this, for the record, is my DO SOMETHING! shout into the Void.)

Do you see the highly marketable theme/quest/format that I'm not seeing? (Talking around it/vague ideas also helpful, if pithy titles aren't your thing.)

If you are the one who pulls the subtitle from the ether, not only will I dedicate the whole damn book to you AND offer you the coveted title of IBWMW Minister of Big Ideas, I will send you something from my big box of secret sex toys. Presently residing in there are:

We're Number....2...yeah:
Thanks to you, IBWMW was #2 in the Reader's Choice category for this year's Kinkly's Sex Blogging Superhero contest. I am undecided whether to be deliriously happy that the blog beat out over 400 other blogs for the honor or peeved about the one (1) blog who beat us. That it is not obvious to me is something I should probably discuss with a licensed professional.

Why? Because of those among you who can have an orgasm--like no problem--with no other kind of hand stimulation, mouth assistance, divine intervention--nothing. Practically all the time.

For example, in response to "Do you come easily, sometimes or never via intercourse alone?" Anonymous commented:

"rather easily and usually multiple times"

And Naomibragged answered:

"always come easily, no fingers or appliances needed (or even wanted, too distracting from the main event)"

For me, coming from just fucking alone has happened--maybe--five times. In my life. And that's rounding up.

It's biological tyranny, I say.

For men and the rare lucky chick who just needs a little in-and-out to come "rather easily and usually multiple times," let me explain. I think porn and romance novels and the in-and-out chicks have skewed what we think is a "normal" sexual response. Despite what we see and read all the damn time, the majority of women need some sort of extra stimulation to have an orgasm. The vast majority of women. That's just how it is.

Several men and women, who I consider to be generally enlightened, have mentioned variations of "it just takes the right man"--which is, I think, only true to a certain extent. Yes, some men are much better lovers. Yes, some men's parts are more compatible with your own. And yes, some men will get you so hot you could practically come from their gaze. All of these are good and can help.

However, in most women, the clit is where things are happening. But in a cruel twist of nature, Today's Generally Accepted Fuck Moves are happening in the vagina, which is annoyingly close to the clit, but...not...quite...there. Men, picture if your main sensory pleasure center was, say, on your perineum but you were expected to get to your bliss via regular old boning. You could get close. Your balls might rub against there occasionally, or you might figure out some crazy-ass position that sort of almost did the trick. But it wouldn't the kind of direct you-are-there-stimulation you'd need.

This is not to say that most women don't like pure fucking because we do. We definitely definitely do. And not just gentle soul-lock lovemaking--sometimes the hard and fast porny fuck pounding, too.

Wrote JS: I like the fuck pounding even if it doesn't "get me there." This is what I crave during sex, a certain amount of roughness or hard thrusting. The soft stuff and touching is great also, but I can do that on my own. I can't fuck myself hard.

Added Anon: Oh, hell yes!! But I don't come like this. Just enjoy it for the raw intensity and squishy noises. :)

I was feeling embittered by this and started wondering if I were a bad lay. After all, would you rather fuck someone who came "rather easily and usually multiple times" (sorry, I'm obsessed with this) or someone who was going to need a hand, and not in a metaphoric sense? I mean I can see that there's a certain hotness in being able to control a woman's orgasm with your touch or to be able to watch her as she brings herself to that place, but damn, I was still a little jealous.

Agreed, it does make you feel high-maintenance and frustrated sometimes, but I say we think of these "in and out" orgasmers in a different way; as a really small minority - like the 1% billionaires. They're loud and influential, and the culture seems to be shaped around their needs, but it shouldn't be. The vast majority of us, and probably a lot more than we'd think, are in the same boat. We just need to start shaping the culture more around our majority situation; then we wouldn't have to feel so frustrated for no reason. Let's rise up Grinders and Manual Stimulators!! :)

While I head to my workshop to make signs for a Grinders and Manual Stimulators rally, here's a bit more from Trisha:

Masters and Johnson found and recorded physiological evidence of some women who orgasmed from penetration alone, but hypothesized it was a Rube-Goldberg situation where the penis pulled on the inner lips which pulled on the clitoral hood, which rubbed against the clitoris. These orgasms were just like the ones they recorded from more direct clit stimulation, but were the weakest orgasms they recorded - not surprising since it was the most indirect way to stimulate the clit. They didn't find any anatomical characteristics that predicted the ability to have orgasms this way.

Not only do I very much like the Rube Goldberg reference tossed into a discussion of fuckery, but this idea of the weaker orgasm is interesting to me.

I asked a friend if she could come via straight ol' p-in-v (Yes, my social skills could use a little refinement. Thanks for noticing!) and she said, "Sure. Sometimes." When she saw my face darken with envy, she added kindly, "But they aren't as good as the ones I get when I masturbate."

I come away (not via vaginal intercourse, as you now know) even more confused. Are women's orgasms via sex generally weaker than via external stimulation? Are men a little bummed out when they get a woman who requires more work? Shouldn't our high-maintenance ancestors been edged out through evolution--how are we the majority? And how fucking unfair is it that most of us get what might be seen as a pretty major genetic rip off?

I'm also having new admiration for straight men, gay chicks and other lovers of women. I know every new lover is a different country to discover and all that, but seeing the huge variations in what women want, like and require made me realize just how hard it would be to fuck a woman well. The focus-on-the-clit move that would be meltingly blissful to one would be way too intense for another. Men are different from each other too, of course, but it doesn't seem like the differences between them are quite as extreme.

What do we do with all this? Well, we keep talking about it and how female sexuality actually works instead of how we think it should probably work. Just fucking do it. If not for you, then for your sisters, so that we may all go forth and fuck freely and well as nature intended.

xoxo
jill

*Why am I running this again? Because just the other day a grown man, a perfectly smart and earnest one, told me that his new girlfriend probably had a biological issue because she couldn't come via his his smart and earnest thrusting.

For my act of sexual servitude, I'll be mailing out 8 embarrassing packages to the contest winners* with which they can do unspeakably filthy things. And....if the other versions of Doc Johnson's iVibe Select line are anything like the two I tried, they are gonna lose their fucking minds.

As you know because I lack a filter, I was madly in love with the iCome model just last week but then I tried the iRock one and--holy shit!--I have never fucked such a glorious thing in my life. (I don't get any kickbacks or anything, I'm just telling you as a fellow traveler.)

So epic was it (I'm telling you--the shit was good. Like g-spot heroin) that it made me revisit the question of why do we deal with the messiness of another when a slutty slutty machine can do such an incredible job, at least in evoking a purely biological set of responses.

Are we not men?

Reader J sent an perfectly-timed email reminding me about the sublime pleasures of human connection and why I am not (yet) packing my bags to go off and live with my iRock where we would have fruit trees, a writer's studio/guest house by the pool and lots of beautiful fucking.

J was nominating Why We Fuckfor the "favorite post" question I'd asked, writing, "You get a whole person to yourself" Oh wow! Yes! And it is an
awesome, humbling thing. As an atheist, I cannot ascribe any
preordained meaning to the world. We create it from our actions.
And we are essentially alone, struggling to make sense of the
world and find that meaning. When you join with someone else, when
you lose yourself in them, for a brief or long while, it overcomes
our aloneness, and creates purpose. It is the most life affirming
experience possible.

For the record, he also nominated The Blow Job as Path to the Divine ("Such a hot, sexy and thoughtful, meditation on what can make this
a transcendent pleasure.") And, with that, J brought it all back into perspective. I mean, I could, I guess, give a blow job to the iRock but it would be unrewarding for both of us and lack the whole making sense of our essential aloneness aspect.

There is such a deep primal pleasure--equally sacred and profane--in going into that sexual space with another. The literal and metaphorical nakedness, the intimacy of tasting them, hearing them moan as they lose themselves in it and leaving with their scent still clinging to you. That alone is so heady and rich and nearly overwhelming that the machine-powered orgasms can scarcely compare. At least in the mental/spiritual aspect of it all.

Anais Nin wrote of Henry Miller "...with all the tremendous joys Henry has given me I have not yet felt a real orgasm. My response does not seem to lead to a true climax but is disseminated in a spasm that is less centered, more diffuse." Theirs was one of the most torrid affairs ever recorded. Did Nin's weak-ass orgasm-like spasms render it less so? I would actually say No. I think. You?

Anyway to J and the rest of you, thanks. I absolutely love hearing how it is from your end.** Slap That Ass
Meanwhile, a guy named Segun Odogwu in Nigeria re-runs my Cosmo sex position articles, but adds his own flourishes/personal translations which I find oddly charming. Here's how he interpreted one on butt-focused positions which he calls I Love That Booty! Issa Booty Call!:

"If you love
the booty, then get behind it in, push the panties to the side, then
let your partner go to town worshiping that ass either with his mouth,
let him/she slob their tongue all over that pussy, the clitoris,
everywhere down there."

On another he added his own little tip:

Depending on if she likes spanks, this position can allow you spank her
ass or you can start beating them to make percussion if you like.

So please make these edits in your butt-focused fuckery:
1. slob your tongue everywhere down there.
2. if you find a booty in your face, play a little drum solo.

PS Nice things to do:
--Go vote for IBWMW for Kinkly's Sex Blogging Superheroes list. Super easy.
--Donate here to help cover postage costs, extra pixels and the coffee I'll require to get over the ordeal of having to declare to the mail clerk that I'm sending a big-ass dildo to a nice woman I don't know in Sweden:

Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Well, I finally opened it and--holy fuck!--I am rich in vibrators! They're from the lovely Erica Braverman who, as you may have figured out, works at Doc Johnson--home of my favorite factory tour ever (beating out the Winston-Salem cigarette factory and the Stroh's Brewery tours of my childhood--um, it was a different time, I guess...)

My new vibrator army is from Doc's i-Vibe Select line. They're like five vibrator Superfriends, each with its own
superpower like getting warm, rolling around enticingly, or doing some
sort of magic "come hither' motion inside.

Erica sent me ten of these (literal) fuckers and I will share some of them with you because I am semi-generous.

I gave first dibs to reader "A," who has faithfully given a small donation every month to the blog for years. She opted for the iBend, explaining "I've been wanting something softer. Because nothing says 'do me' like a touch of flaccidity."

I gave second dibs to me and grabbed an iCome, mostly because it was called iCome. I tried it out, for you/journalism and such, and I will say that once you turn it on, there is no "getting in the mood" part, you are immediately just fucking in it, man, and kind of helplessly impaled on it while it wrecks you via deep throbby bass notes. We will so be having a second date.

The Contest Rules:

1. Tell me what your favorite IBWMW post is. You can tell me via Twitter, a comment below, the Facebook page or, like most of you pussies generally opt for, a discreet email. I'm asking for your favorites because I'm compiling some for a book (whee!) and you are the smartest person I know.

2. Pick one of the vibrators you'd like to put in/on your wherever. If you aren't picky and don't require a semi-flacid lover like A, you can list a few choices. (If you are a Kindle subscriber, lmk and I'll give you two entries.)
3. I'll notify the winners October 11 privately so everyone's not knowing your business.

The Prizes! (I sort of just cut and pasted and vaguely edited the product descriptions so be forewarned):

The Vibrator Superfriends confronting their shadow selves

iCome has a clitoral stimulator w/ a special ‘rolling’ mode that "creates a unique undulating movement on the clitoris for incredible pleasure." It has two ultra-powerful independently controlled motors. [Yes. So much so.]

The iWand offers a gentle warming mode that slowly heats the silicone wand head to a pleasurable, body-safe temperature. It can be used with both the warming and vibrating modes active, or either one.

The iRipple has three separate ultra-powerful motors placed along the shaft to create an endless variety of vibration patterns that can span across all three motors, including a rolling effect up and down the shaft.

The iRock features a curved shaft that not only vibrates, but also flexes back and forth in a ‘come hither’ motion for G-spot pleasure.

The iBend is a powerful, seven-function massager you can bend however you damn well please for both internal and external stimulation.

*****

In other superheroic news: Do you mind heading over and voting for IBWMW in Kinkly's Sex Blogging Superheroes Contest? Just go to this link and press "click here to vote!" I need at least five votes by October 9 to even be considered. (Last year IBWMW was 8th out of 100 despite not even telling you about it. Thanks mystery voters!) It literally takes less than 15 seconds and will be the second best thing in my day, the first being, of course, my earlier rendezvous with the swag.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

As I often profess, I'm down with whatever consenting adults want to do. You want to fuck a can opener? Go to town. That said, I am simultaneously fascinated with the fucked-up $%#$ that consenting adults actually end up doing (note: I mean "fucked-up $%#$" in the kindest possible way. I use it here to mean "everything I personally don't want to do." And embarrassingly, I am coming to realize that this category includes a lot of items including: having sex with people in chipmunk costumes, bleaching/dyeing/vajazzing delicate body parts, calling balloon phone sex lines, and, well, I could go on. It's a shamefully long list, really. )

So naturally I was delighted when a wonderful (aren't they all?) In Bed With Married Women reader emailed the results of this plushie survey taken from a plushie website.

Now, if you don't know what a plushie is, well, it's someone who loves stuffed animals. The term encompasses a range--from people merely liking and collecting stuffed animals (like that nice old lady down the street) to people wanting to fuck the living hell out of stuffed animals (like that nice old lady down the street). (Social acceptance hint: if you're not actually into having sex with stuffed animals, you won't want to refer to yourself as a "plushie.")

Anyway, like I said, I was thrilled to see the survey, because, oh lordy, it was awesome. For example, here are the results to Question 3:

I loved it. I mean, c'mon. "Ball sack aroma"? Not only are you going to have your way with poor Mr. Bunnykins, but you are also going to insist he smell like "ball sack aroma"? And, what, exactly, is the polite method of collecting "ball sack aroma" from other people? There was a lot to think about. I pondered something called "plush necrophilia." Did this mean a plush toy doing it with a dead human or a live human with a dead plush toy? And if the plush toy was dead, how was this different from a regular non-living (i.e. dead) plush toy? I learned about plushie porn, she-male plushies and the plushie subcategory that is Beanie Babies (conclusion: Beanie Babies are sexually arousing, yes, but generally too small to fuck. Okay to wear inside your pants). It was all completely fascinating.

But after my initial thrill wore off--Plush toys wearing bondage gear! Plush toy on plush toy action! Something called plush slavery!--I thought, Thank God for the Internet. Seriously. I mean, can you imagine being some kid in Utah who not only wants to have sex with stuffed animals, but also prefers they have "cum smell, mild"? You would feel so completely alone. It's not like you could really bring it up to someone, even a close friend. "Hey Joe, this is kind of weird, but did you ever get really really drunk with your stuffed animals and one thing led to another and...?"

But with the Internet, these folks found each other. Being a plushie in 2011 must be immeasurably better than being a plushie in 1973. Now, Mr. Beanie-Baby-in-his-underwear can find someone who not only gets it, but offers the hint that a pee-covered Beanie Baby makes the experience all the more erotic. Can you imagine what a relief it would be to find such a kindred spirit?

Now, I'm not saying that I want to smear a stuffed animal with poo and have my way with it (Boy, am I ever Not Saying that) but I am glad that if someone does want to do that--and they really do--that they have someone they can talk to about it.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

The Pick Your Prize winners have been notified and if you didn't win, fear not, I have a TON of really really good stuff coming from Aneros and Doc Johnson that may soon be throbbing away up your wherever.

In the meantime, the following readers are gonna be "in a meeting" for a bit.

Another J, a dude who lives Canada, decided he didn't actually want his winning anal beads after researching "sketchy, unsafe-for-your-body jelly anal beads" thus saving me from having to declare "sketchy...anal beads" when the postal worker asks what I'm shipping internationally. For his research and good-heartedness, as well as a bit of flattery (that would be: "You have such a wonderfully refreshing, funny and frank voice." #PraiseWhore), J will get his pick of the next litter, if a group of sex toys is called a litter.

A, an assistant principal in an undisclosed location, won the Fin finger vibrator and it's not because she wrote "Thank you for being wonderfully funky, intelligent, quirky, sexy you!"--that was after. A, if you must know, also reports that she attended a BDSM class over the weekend and learned that there is a proper way to spank. In the old days, assistant principals already knew that, but there you go.

C won the Talk to Me conversation cards and it was uneventful.

And finally, not one of you pussies even entered to get the black nipple pasties with fake piercings. ("Casual for the day, sporty for the beach!") And... I was at a loss. I hate hate hate wasting things and I couldn't just throw them away unused so, as any one of you would do, I put the damn things on while I was home alone, as my 400 cats looked on with disapproval. The pasties stick right to your nipples and if you move them up a bit, you can give yourself an inexpensive pretend boob lift. However, the sticky is not that sticky and I would think twice for before heading out to Trader Joe's in them.

I then decided I should take pictures of myself all pastied up for you because there may be something wrong in my brain hole. I was even gonna post one here, but it suddenly felt a little porny, like I was sexting you. Perhaps getting a surprise be-pastied boob shot is like getting an unwanted dick pic, that is, no bueno. I should probably have a talk with HR about it.

xoxo
jill

ps As I was finishing this, my UPS man delivered a truly huge box from Doc Johnson. I know it was my usual man because, uncharacteristically, he just screeched "UPS!" before dropping 14 pounds of excessively non-discreetly packaged sex toys and fleeing for safety.

Monday, September 11, 2017

Hey there, gorgeous. It just dawned on me that the contest deadline was yesterday. Crap! Let me pick some damn winners and come up with some cash to mail the prizes. (I plan on looking in my other pants where I hope to have left a $300 bill.) I'll contact you if you won.In the meantime, please time travel with me back to this 2012 post, when streaming Netflix was new and I made fun of George W. Bush a little. Poor innocent 2012 In Bed With Married Women--blog had no idea what was coming down the pike.

*****
I am such a sanctimonious ass when it comes to TV. Whenever someone asks me if I've seen some show, instead of calmly replying, "No, I haven't yet," I invariably sniff, "No. I don't really watch TV." As though my excessive loitering in coffee shops and sneaking off to Barnes and Nobles to read celebrity magazines (which I also publicly purport to "hate") is a somehow superior way to spend one's time. (See also: Jim Gaffigan's "McDonald's")

I think my virulence against TV watching is because I fear that I don't really hate it, but might actually love it too much. Perhaps if I started watching, I'd soon be glassy-eyed and unresponsive, watching 24 hour marathons of "House Hunters" and sitting in a pile of my own waste. It's kind of like how George W. Bush had to become uber-religious to stave away his ever-present mighty urge to become a coke-snorting ass-grabbing drunk again.

My theory was proven to be semi-correct the other day when we got a month of free streaming Netflix. When you sign up, they ask you what sorts of things you like to watch. I selected "cerebral indie films", "foreign films," "documentaries" and the like, but when it came down to it, I sat my ass down and started watching episode after episode of fucking..."Hoarders." I even watched part of an episode during the day, which is especially shameful to me since I consider to daytime TV watching to be the absolute height of slovenliness and a complete moral failing.

I did learn something. Well, actually two things. One is that I am a disgusting hypocrite. Two is that now I want to clean the living hell out of everything.

Today, then, I am cleaning out saved messages from readers so that they don't build up in unsightly piles, forcing me to crawl through a goat path to get to my blog.

1. Cagey-C alerted me to the Little Rooster, an alarm clock that "wakes you gradually, tenderly, sensuality." After I waded through the site's Brit-speak suggestions on placing it inside your "knickers," I figured out it's a vibrator that wakes you up by pleasuring you inside the general knicker area. Which doesn't sound half bad, though I suspect they could come up with more alluring ad copy than: "Beautifully shaped from sensual polycarbonate."

2. The IBWMW Minister of Science sent this enticing missive. "You have to see these pictures. I'm a biologist and even I find these pictures incredibly creepy." The link, if you dare, shows all manner of creepy-ass baby shower cakes.Warning: Contains cake fetuses.

It is obvious upon looking at the fossil hand, that its most likely purpose was, not to mince words about it, masturbation. Just look at the hand itself and its reach position (figure 2). Think about it: deft and masterly self-satisfying would yield heightened sexuality, indeed of keeping one's self aroused at all times, ready for the Real Thing whenever the opportunity might arise. Unlike having to wait for prey to amble by, one could take one's evolutionary future in one's own hands--and use one's tool in a better way, one might say.

Honoring Christ through anal chains

4. My neighbor Wendy (penner of Relax, It's Just God, a blog for secular parents) discovered--through I'm sure absolutely no prurient reasons whatsoever--Sex Toys Aren't Just For Heathens Anymore, an article on the burgeoning business of selling sex toys to religious people. For example, Covenant Spice, "a Christ honoring sex and romance site for couples," honors Christ by not showing nudity on their sex toys' boxes. You can "bless your spouse with an orgasm" with products such as the Christ-honoring Fun Factory Felix (at left), a 10" anal chain "with a friendly face."

5. And finally, JB alerted me to a product called Masque. "These orally-dissolvable, flavored gel strips will take the intimacy between you and your partner to the next level," the copy reads mysteriously. Decoded, it's a strip you eat so you're not subjected to the presumed horrors of the taste of your partner's semen. It comes in flavors like watermelon and mango. This is wrong in about 8 different ways to me--I mean, how fucking insulting is it if you pop a mango strip in your mouth before you'll take him in your mouth? "Sorry, just need to cover up the disgusting flavor of, well....you." (I would also submit that if you don't like your lover's taste, biology might be trying to tell you something.)

If you're not doing anything else, such wasting your life watching TV, I suggest you look at the Masque FAQs if only for this one: DOES MASQUE TASTE GOOD?

Through user research, we’ve found that a vast majority of our customers love or like all of the flavors. They are certainly not candy and were created for an intended purpose. However, we have many people in our office that eat them merely for the taste. [Emphasis added. By me. Because that is fucked up.]

Thursday, August 24, 2017

I was dog sitting at a friend's house recently and--to make a short story shorter--I found their dog chewing up my favorite vibrator.

Don't worry. The dog is fine, the arousing effects apparently greatly lessened when you eat the vibrator instead of using as directed. And all is well with the owners too, mostly because I didn't actually tell them what had gone down on my watch. I figured my post about a dog performing surprise fellatio on my big ol' fake dick had served as a blanket warning to anyone who might desire my dog sitting services.

So all that's good. I mean, as these things go.

But the vibrator--my very very favorite, the Ohmibod Cuddle Mini--was done. A mangled reminder of its former sexy self, like Mickey Rourke, but smaller and more vibrator-shaped.

Suki, who works at Ohmibod, kindly sent me a new Mini, along with a lovely handwritten note that said, "Keep this one away from the dog." Which is good advice for
anyone. And guess what? I GOT ONE FOR YOU TOO! One of you, at least.

And...as long as I'm giving that away, I'm throwing in a few more prizes because I'm a socialist. Some of 'em are good, some kinda meh. All are unused--only the very finest for you, gentle reader!

So--ta-da!--here are the prizes, one of which may or may not be coming your way. (And yes, some are more like "prizes," but piss off, they're free.)

Yum

1. The Ohmibod Cuddle Mini, a strong-ass G-spot vibe with deep, throbby vibrations. Completely delicious--in the sexual sense, but also quite literally delicious to certain pervy dogs who could have had a perfectly normal non-G-spot-flavored dog treat had they just waited a minute.

3. A pair of Lolos
pasties from Germany. Black with a pierced nipple area that you're supposed to wear in place of a proper shirt. Box suggests
"casual for the day, sporty for the beach..." but I'm a hard no on
both scenarios.

5. A deck of Talk to Me cards, "52 intimate questions to
spark your relationship" which, near as I can tell, are ideal for
alerting your significant other that they need to break up with you at once.

The Rules
--Tell me which prize (or "prize") you want in a comment below, on the IBWMW Facebook page, or on my Twitter if you can wade through the months of tweets where I'm freaking the fuck out about politics. (If you don't want anyone to know that you've even entered such a filthy
filthy contest, send your entry from your undisclosed location to jillhamilton001@gmail.com.)--Tell me what your favorite sex toy ever is/was. This is unrelated to the contest--I'm just super nosy.
--Results Wednesday, September 6. (Fear not, I won't reveal your name.)
--I'll pay to mail it to you, but if you live in another country or are just an appreciative reader who is rich and foolish with your money, feel free to make a donation via that big DONATE button in the right margin.

Yours,
jill

PS Thanks for all the delightful mail you've been sending! I will tend to you. Please
take a number and sit down.

(If you order something through one of the links, the blog gets a kickback, but no one's paying me to show their stuff, particularly not the jumbo anal bead factory because they wouldso not be getting their money's worth)

Friday, August 18, 2017

Loretta, grab your steno pad! I have
an idea that's gonna make us a mint!

(***Important Note to Readers: the following post does not contain any actual Vagisil porn.)

I promised myself I would not write about Misguided Googlers anymore. But yesterday I looked at In Bed With Married Women's search terms because, well, I just can't help it. It's such a voyeuristic thrill to see what weird-ass things people are searching for. A peak into the hidden soul of humanity, if you will. And it was so worth it because, I mean, look at the kind of stuff fresh-scrubbed Citizens of the World eagerly entered into the (supposed) privacy of their search boxes:

--"my vagina smells peppery"

--"it's your anus" (True, that. And the name of a great new sitcom coming this fall on NBC.)
--"how to make your butt hole look nice" (Um, it's a butt hole...)
--"Grandma 7 vibrator" (The Grandma 6 vibrator wasn't properly grounded, I'm guessing.)
--"how meny kind of penice&vegena foto?" (Is this rhetorical? A zen koan?)
---"really bad noises in bed" (Actually, that one sounds kind of interesting.)
--"Captain and Tennille Twenty Years of Romance" (Oh, dear.)

But my personal favorite was: "how to make a Mangina." For those of you didn't see this post, a Mangina is a fake vagina g-string thing that a man wears to create the (very weak) illusion that he's sporting a vag. Which is fine. Whatever, if you want to wear one, go for it. But my advice to you is, if you're going to wear an Mangina, don't try to make one at home. For fuck's sake, spend the money and buy a real Mangina! I mean, coming upon someone wearing any Mangina would be upsetting enough, but someone wearing a flippin' pipe cleaner and construction paper homemade Mangina...? No, that will simply not do.

And finally, since I wrote this post on Vagisil, Google has taken to sending a bunch of Vagisil search traffic my way. I'm getting lots of "Vagisil ad offensive to women," "Vagisil doesn't work," blah blah blah, but I am particularly fond of this one, "Vagisil fuck yea". Vagisil. Fuck. Yea. It's like poetry.

Which leads us to the aforementioned "Vagisil porn," which, as my husband pointed out--far too gleefully, if you ask me--provides In Bed With Married Women as the top hit. This is because there is no actual Vagisil porn. None! Perhaps it's because Vagisil porn is not sexy. ("Oh yeah, you like that cloying floral fragrance my vag is emitting, don't you? Mmmmm, I think I need some more Vagisil... right... now... please... that's right... oh yeah...there.... yes, yes, yes, MAKE ME FEEL FRESH!!!!") OR, it could be that Vagisil porn is a vast untapped market. I mean, there's that one eager customer already. Surely he's not the only Vagisil perv, I mean, Vagisil connoisseur. Is financial solvency knocking on your door in the form of an Internet connection, a digital camera and a big tube of Vagisil? Think about it. And you're welcome.

xoxo
jill

(yes, it's a rerun. I'm sorry. I have kids! Plus I need to freak out daily about the State of the Country. I will get to you though. Soon. Contest! )

But I chose grovermommy's entry, not because of her word--menstruate, which bothers me not. In fact I could say it all day--and maybe I just will--but because:

1. She said provided not one, but three, definitions for what mensturate sounds like it should mean, including:

c) an adjective describing a manly appearance, ie. "His menstruate jaw line impressed me and I acquiesced to his offer of a cocktail."

2. But really I chose grovermommy because when she is not surreptitiously reading smutty blogs, she wrote that she also teaches anatomy and is thus forced to say the word menstruate often. For some reason I am enchanted by the idea of grovermommy (Ms. Grovermommy, in class, I suppose) choking out the word menstruate while she and her class are all equally dying of embarrassment. If you know someone in grovermommy's class, I would urge them to ask her to repeat the word loudly and often, claiming not to have heard.

Anyway, I love the lot of you and thank you for sharing your forbidden words with the rest of us. And grovermommy, email me your mailing address and I'll get your prize to you straightaway.

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Pity the poor Bikini Condom. Launched in the early 1990's, it was overshadowed by its more popular cousin, the female condom. Both were part of the contraceptive group the FDA gave the perfectly hideous label "vaginal pouches." ("Hon, I need some quarters for the meter. Can you check your vaginal pouch?")

And when you're playing second fiddle to the female condom--a device most Americans have never actually seen, let alone used--let's just say you're not gonna be sitting at the popular table. Not that there is a popular table for contraceptives. Or if there is, I was, sadly not invited to sit there.

Bikini Condoms look "like a g-string panty with a condom pouch" wrote an unnamed author in a 1991 issue of Contraceptive Technology, a magazine which I get only for the crossword puzzle.

The condom "is automatically introduced into the vagina with coitus," the writer continues, masterfully making a sentence about sex totally void of eroticism. The odd language continues to the last sentence: "They are so novel they appeal to people with an 'open mind.'" "Open mind" is inexplicably in quotes, signifying, to my mind, that the author is does not particularly care for people with open minds. Or perhaps "coitus."

So why aren't we all sportin' vaginal pouches this very second? I mean, they empowered women and junk, right? Well, offhand, I can venture several guesses:

1. The term "vaginal pouch" could be entirely to blame.

2. Its look and feel and pretty much everything about it. "Manufactured all in one piece from thin, cream-colored latex," according to the Powerhouse Museum in Australia, "It consists of a belt, which fits around the hips, attached to a pouch-like tube." In summation, it combines a pouch-like tube (ohyeah), a belt reminiscent of grandma's old-timey maxi pads, and cream-colored latex, which we all know is the very sexiest latex color.

3. It is thicker than a regular condom, for those who like their sensation reduced as much as possible.

4. The whole clothing-as-contraceptive idea. (However, other clothing/contraceptive combos such as pleated khakis, holiday sweaters and men's jeans shorts, are still in widespread use.)

5. Reusability. It can be reused 5 to 10 times. I'm as green as the next girl,** but even I would be hesitant to drag out some raggedy-ass cream-colored condom for the 9th time.

6. General confusion/inherent paradox: "Bikini" = sexy. "Condom" = not that sexy, but sex-related, at least. And yet, "bikini condom" = so not sexy. This, my friend is your Zen koan for the day, bikini condom-style.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

If you do any social media work, you're supposed to care about SEO. SEO stands for Search Engine Optimization or something. I don't really understand it, frankly, but I think the general idea is that you're supposed to tag your posts with phrases that people commonly search for, so when people search for "weight loss" or "Kardashian ass" or whatever, there's your thing, top of the rankings.

You'd think I'd have an edge in this since:
1. I write about sex (or at least in the near vicinity of sex).
2. Sex is an insanely popular search term. (Probably the most popular by far, despite that Yahoo! "Trending now" list that claims that most people are searching for "Katie Couric" or "easy soup recipes.")

However, I was looking through the tags I put at the end of my posts and never once did I put plain ol' "sex," thus cleverly luring the Googling masses over here to In Bed With Married Women (see also: self-sabotage? examine later....)

No, instead I put the most cockamamie tags that no one in their right minds would ever search for. I mean, "a can of beans"? "Ball sack aroma"? THESE are the terms I choose to lure readers/represent my "brand"?

Have a look at these, unfortunately, very real tags I've used and I think you'll see why I might spend a few moments perusing some "Improve your SEO" articles:

"mmm sex ass" (1)

1930s japanese sex catalogue (1)

a bag of knobs (1)

a can of beans (1)

abraham lincoln (1)

accidental penis (1)

accordion playing monkeys (1)

anal bleaching (2)

ananchronistic use of the term hair do (1)

ancient sex toys (1)

antique vibrators (2)

aquaman origin story (1)

ass shaking in general (1)

bag o condoms (1)

ball sack aroma (1)

barbie heads up the bum (1)

batman and robin as gateway drug (1)

bikini condoms (1)

boring ass marital sex (1)

camel toe (1)

canned ass (1)

chain up the butt (1)

cheaters mildly prospering (1)

chimps with a boner (1)

delightful use of the word posh (1)

devil inside by inxs also works with the words penis inside (1)

difficulty of loving a woman whose vagina is a gateway to the dead (1)

dislike of the phrase "family jewels" (1)

dissing my mom's favorite peaches (1)

don't be puttin' ben gay on your wiener (1)

errant hot dogs (1)

evil corporate overlords (1)

evil limbic system (1)

excessive cussing (1)

excessive footnotes (1)

excessive talk of balls (1)

excessive thriftiness (1)

fake penis n' balls (1)

forced lactation is a real thing (1)

fresh and sexy genital wipes (1)

fresh balls (2)

fuckiest (1)

fucking a pool noodle in your parents bathroom (1)

fucking machines (1)

furries (3)

giant pink panties (1)

goblin sex (1)

haiku (1)

hand jobs (1)

Harder Fucker Man (1)

hateful celibacy (1)

heroic vaginal rescues (1)

holy fuck it is ET porn (1)

homemade plushies (1)

homemade sex toys (2)

household uses of a magnetic cock (1)

IKEA sex (1)

inadvertent streaking (1)

indifferent cats (1)

introduction of the IBWMW Rescue Van (1)

javier bardem (1)

klout can BELIEVE whatever the fuck it wants but it will never truly know (1)

KY with corpse flower (1)

lesbian bed death (1)

lesion on the glans (1)

like fucking a unicorn (1)

lindy west (1)

magically delicious (1)

make-out music (2)

mangina

mind fuckery (1)

my horse name (1)

my strange obsession with love is...

nipples that wave hello (1)

no mention of colonial williamsburg (1)

nudists (2)

overuse of the term fuck pounding (1)

ovid is my master (3)

penis bleaching (1)

pissing off pee fetish people (1)

post in which a mention of marmite would not be out of place (1)

quote from an old man who you do not want to think of as a sexual being (1)

ruddy in complexion (1)

sasquatch erotica (1)

scary wax mannequin legs (1)

secret love of Hoarders (1)

semen strips are not candy (1)

sex toy recycling (2)

sexy santa (1)

shiny shiny shiny boots of leather (1)

someone open a window it's fucking depressing in here (1)

steve buscemi is oddly hot (1)

still not sure what a vas deferens is (1)

Stuck Up 100 Objects Inserted and Ingested in Places They Shouldn't Be (1)

About Me

I write In Bed With Married Women, a blog about sex in all its boring, strange, funny, smokin' hot glory. My work has also appeared in Salon, AlterNet, Cosmopolitan, Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly, Jezebel, Mad, Games and the Los Angeles Times. I look grumpy in all pictures whether grumpy or just kinda neutral.